


Incurable

by Erisabesu (ErisabesuFic)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Atsumu suffers and we love to see it, Fluff, Hinata Shouyou is Sunshine, Hinata Shouyou is a Tease, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25177093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisabesuFic/pseuds/Erisabesu
Summary: "Being in love with Shouyou is like a persistent, incurable sickness."For AtsuHina day, 7/10. <333
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 30
Kudos: 211





	Incurable

**“Incurable”**

♦

Being in love with Shouyou is like a persistent, incurable sickness. 

Atsumu navigates each morning in a state of fever, wobbling through their apartment, his temperature rising each time Shouyou brushes past him in their kitchen, or nudges him under the breakfast table with his bare foot, or catches him by surprise with a quick kiss on the mouth, which Shouyou likes to do. _A lot_.

Atsumu’s head feels weightless and woozy whenever he hears Shouyou’s bubbly laugh, and his heart squeezes tight whenever Shouyou calls him by name — simply “Atsumu,” without the “san.” It’s enough to send Atsumu back under the poofy bed covers, shivering, just his eyes peeking over the edge, afraid to get scorched by the shining preciousness of Shouyou’s smile. 

Shouyou doesn’t let him hide for long — he squirms under the bed covers too and giggles and tickles Atsumu under his pajamas until Atsumu has kicked off the blankets altogether, and lies red faced in their bed from the laughing fit and from managing to capture Shouyou securely in his arms. Shouyou attacks him with kisses, then, and Atsumu rolls him into the pillows, finishing what Shouyou started until he’s flushed the same color as his wild hair, and there’s steam coming out of both sets of their ears.

The moment that really gives Atsumu chills, is when he wakes up at the first light of dawn, alone. He opens his eyes and sees Shouyou on the porch right outside their bedroom, seated cross legged in his briefs, hands at his knees, every muscle loose and at ease. The sun slowly peeks over the distant mountains, catching the top of Shouyou’s messy bedhead, and giving him a crown of flames that flicker and grow brighter with every passing moment like he’s a powerful creature not of this Earth. 

He’s so beautiful Atsumu can’t breathe, can’t suck in any air. He watches Shouyou’s perfectly still form — in awe of how motionless he can be when he chooses — and survives the moments of night turning into day by circulating the pride and admiration he harbors for Shouyou through his desperate lungs, amazed at how Shouyou has matured before his very eyes into the sweet, and rather fearsome partner Atsumu adores with his whole being. 

The other moment that propels Atsumu into a kamikaze tailspin, body aching and muscles quivering helplessly, is when Shouyou empties a clean load of laundry from the dryer onto their bed, and plays music on his phone while he folds their clothes and linens. 

The laundry isn’t the problem. The folding of the laundry isn’t the problem. The problem is that Shouyou has developed a taste for Brazilian music genres like Axé and Carioca funk, styles that have sensual rhythms and lyrics that Atsumu can’t understand linguistically, but can understand on a fundamental level as an interweaving of blunt pick up lines and love songs where flirtation and sometimes — usually — heartbreak go hand in hand. 

Shouyou’s voice joins in, clear and strong, gravelly when it needs to be, or sliding up and down the sultry notes with passion to match that of the singers belting out their feelings. The sounds of Shouyou humming and singing along in a foreign tongue just… _sends_ Atsumu off the edge of the cliff and over the waterfall, right into a nosedive to crash into the rapids at its base that tumble him around like so much seaweed.

If it was only the singing, only that — Atsumu might be able to pull through and keep his soul intact within his ribs. But Shouyou doesn’t just sing. He _dances_. 

Atsumu’s no stranger to nightclubs, or gettin’ down to some sick beats; he’s been around the block once or twice in the past and has some slick moves to prove it. But this is Shouyou he’s looking at — _his_ Shouyou — and Shouyou can make his body move in any way he wants on the volleyball court or off. Shouyou has clearly learned to move the way Brazilians do, in a way that is both alien and primal, and absolutely dripping with sex appeal.

Shouyou twists his waist and shakes his hips, popping his neck or shoulders on an accent beat when the music turns carnal, stepping his feet back and forth in a full body gyration that has Atsumu sweating from every pore. Shouyou dips his head back, grinning as he dances, and Atsumu’s fever ignites into a full blaze, fingertips itching to slide over that body that fits against his like they were made for each other. 

Shouyou takes Atsumu’s hands and puts them on his waist, and Atsumu has to close his eyes for a minute, concentrate on breathing and remaining upright because with Shouyou it always seems like he’ll forget. Then Shouyou’s hands are moving on his hips, and Atsumu’s eyes pop back open. Shouyou laughs, looking up at him with that mischievous sparkle that lances right into Atsumu’s heart. 

“Like this,” Shouyou says, squeezing Atsumu’s body and guiding him side to side the way latin dancers do. Like foreplay. Like sex.

In no time they are in synch, moving forward and back, twisting side to side, hands caressing each other’s backs, or sliding over their stomachs, always, always reaching for one another. Atsumu grows bolder, pulling Shouyou in as close as he can, and Shouyou cocks his head and twirls away just out of reach.

“Hey!” Atsumu protests, bereft of Shouyou’s touch.

Shouyou sways sensually for him, teasing, hands in his red hair, hips circling like they are a portal to sin. 

Atsumu’s soul nearly chucks itself right out of his body.

Shouyou takes pity on him, and sidles closer. He stretches his arms around Atsumu’s neck. “Come here,” he whispers, then presses his hot mouth on Atsumu’s bare collarbone. “Let’s continue.”

It’s too much. Atsumu’s brains start to fry at the edges, like an egg under the Rio de Janeiro sun. Shouyou knows Atsumu has no real defenses, the little imp, and patiently leads Atsumu through one or two of the simpler routines he knows, hips connected in a rolling samba, working Atsumu up into a serious frenzy. Then Shouyou licks his lips, and finally sits Atsumu down on the side of the bed.

Shouyou hastily sweeps the clean clothes off the bedding and back into the laundry hamper, but leaves his phone playing Brazilian music while he pulls off Atsumu’s shirt, humming and smiling. Shouyou dances for Atsumu, just for Atsumu, erotically stripping off his tank top and his shorts, and then climbing into Atsumu’s lap. 

The dance doesn’t stop there. It simply shifts. Atsumu’s fever rages, his body aches, his senses overload, shivering with Shouyou’s kisses and the taste of his flesh. 

And after, in the sweet glow of the afternoon’s breeze, Shouyou resting in the crook of his arm, fingers entwined on the pillow, Atsumu’s head feels as weightless as his heart is anchored by this incurable sickness he carries for Hinata Shouyou. 

He nuzzles into the back of Shouyou’s neck, content to suffer for the rest of eternity.

—

Ω

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 Hope you enjoyed this little story!
> 
> I'm on twitter, head empty, just atsuhina. <333 [@erisabesu3](https://twitter.com/erisabesu3) \o/


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